by David Archer
After a while, though, it was nice to be able to wave hello and goodbye to neighbors who were more than just a face you recognized as someone on your street, or to stop and talk to someone while he was mowing his grass. The first time he’d heard mowers outside his own window and looked out to see two of his neighbors out there, one on a mower and another running a weed-eater along his fence and walkways, it had brought him to tears.
He'd gone out and told them how much he appreciated it, and pointed out that he'd been planning to hire someone to do it, but they told him that's what neighbors were for. That led to a talk about his Corvette, which led to Sam's mechanical skills helping one of them—Jim Mitchell—put new brakes on his wife's car. Before long, there was a neighborhood swap system going on, and Sam never worried about his lawn again.
Everyone in the neighborhood could do something that someone else would need at one time or another, and so it became a kind of “pay it forward” situation. When someone needed mechanical work, Sam was glad to help out with his tools and knowledge, and when he needed some electrical work done, he found that the guy three doors down was a professional electrician, and that's whose rear axle Sam had fixed two weeks earlier. What goes around comes around, they say, and it was certainly working that way for Sam and his neighbors.
It had been a year since the shooting. Sam had adjusted well, so well that he'd graduated from his emotional support group and been released from physical therapy. He still used the cane a lot, but he could manage to go without it at times, and he'd even had a few more dates lately, though still not any he'd want to ask out again. Life was looking up a bit, and he was feeling like everything was alright, sitting on his front porch and watching the neighbors go past on their ways to work or visits or church or wherever they might be going.
He saw the lady walking up the street from a block away but didn't know who she was, so when she turned into his driveway and walked toward him, he was a little surprised. She came right to the edge of the first step, and stopped there.
“Are you Mr. Sam?” she asked.
She was a small woman who appeared to be in her late forties, and the lines in her face said she'd had her share of grief and heartaches. He smiled and motioned for her to come on up and take the other chair.
“That's me,” he said. “How can I help you?” He suspected that she might have a problem with her car, and he was always ready to help out his neighbors. The “swap thing,” as he called it, had given him a lot of purpose, and he enjoyed it.
The lady came up and sat beside him, but she didn't say anything for a moment. When she did, she didn't look up at him, and spoke softly, like she was trying to say a prayer but was a little bit afraid someone would overhear it and be angry.
“My granddaughter, she's gone missing, and the police say they can't help me. They say there's too much other stuff they have to do, so they can't look for a missing little girl.”
Sam knew what she was saying, even if she didn't. It wasn't that the police weren't interested, it was that they simply did not have the manpower to devote to every case that came along. If the child had been missing for less than a day, they wouldn't even take a report; if she'd been missing more than three days, they would assume she's either a runaway or she's dead. That was just how things went, and some cops were so callous that they didn't even bother to try to explain.
“What's your name?” Sam asked.
“I'm Sandy Ward, and my granddaughter is Cassie Rice. She's only twelve, Mr. Sam, and she didn't come home the other day after she went to visit with her daddy. He says he dropped her off, but nobody saw him, and she never came home.” She finally raised her eyes to meet his. “Mr. Donaldson, down there at the end of the block, he said you used to be a policeman, and maybe you'd know how to find her.”
Sam felt his heart breaking for the lady, but the words that rose to his lips were only, “I wish I could help, Mrs. Ward.” As soon as he said them, he regretted it, because he knew that she'd take it as a sign that he didn’t care, either, and if there was one thing Sam had always cared about, it was kids, but what could he do? He wasn't a cop anymore; he didn't have any way to help her.
She nodded, and looked back down at the floor. “I didn't figure you could,” she said, “but he said I should ask, so I thought I would. I mean, you never know, right? Maybe there'd be something you could do, or maybe you'd know somebody who could. I had to try, right?” She got to her feet, and started down the steps. “Thank you, anyhow,” she said, and Sam could almost hear the tears trying to fall as she spoke.
“Mrs. Ward,” he said, “please come back. Maybe there is something I can do.”
Once again, as soon as the words left his lips he wanted to kick himself, but it was too late. When she turned around, there was that faint glimmer of hope in her face, and there was no way he could bring himself to destroy it. He motioned for her to take the other seat again, and she did so, her eyes wide.
“Mrs. Ward, I used to be a police detective, and I even worked the department that looks for missing kids for a while, so I know the basics of what to do. The problem is that I don't have all the connections I used to have, and so if I go looking for Cassie, it's not gonna be like having the real police looking for her, you understand? Now, there's a chance I can find her, but I can't make any promises; if you can accept that, then I'm willing to give it a try, okay?”
Mrs. Ward nodded her head. “Mr. Sam, I can accept that, because as it is right now, no one is willing to do anything. I know you can't make any guarantees, but I can guarantee that if no one goes looking at all, then there's no way she'll ever be found, am I right?”
Sam smiled. “You're right. So tell me all about Cassie and how she came to be missing.”
“Cassie lives with me, since her mama got messed up on meth a few years ago, and her daddy gets her on weekends, even though he's in a lot of trouble himself. He hasn't gone to prison yet, though, so he still gets his parental rights, even though my daughter got hers taken away for the same charges he's facing. That just isn't right, but oh well. Not anything I can do about that. Anyway, Allen, Cassie's daddy, he came over five days ago to pick her up, late like always, but she didn't come back home that night like she was supposed to. I called him that night and asked him where she was, and he started yellin' at me, said he dropped her off right when he was supposed to, and if I lost her that was my own fault.” She sniffled. “Mr. Sam, I know down in my heart that he didn't bring her back, and I know he's done something with her, but I don't think she's dead. I think if she was dead, he'd have been long gone by then, cause he's a coward.”
“Sounds about right,” Sam said. “His name is Allen Rice?”
“Allen Rice, yes sir,” she answered. “He doesn't have a job, but he's always got money, and it doesn't take a genius to figure that out, not in this day and age. Cassie's told me herself that he's made her take packages and give them to people in exchange for money, but the court says I still have to let him take her for a visit every other Saturday.”
Sam took out his phone and dialed a number from memory. “Dan? Listen, it's Sam.”
“Hey, Sam,” Dan said with a genuine smile in his voice. “Been a long time since you called, you doin' all right?”
Sam grinned. “Yeah, long time, that's true, and I'm doin' fair. Listen, Danny, I've got a small favor to ask, okay? You ever hear of a dealer, probably small time, name of Allen Rice?”
“Hmm, lemme see. What else you got on him? White or black?”
Sam covered the phone and turned to Mrs. Ward. “Allen's a white guy, right?” She nodded and he spoke into the phone again. “Yeah, Caucasian, probably early thirties or thereabouts. Might be known to use his daughter as a delivery mule.”
“Hmm. I've got one Allen Rice in the database, and he's noted as using a little girl for parcel post. Lives on Princeton Drive, down in old town. Want me to see what else I can dig up on him?”
“Yeah, that sounds like my guy, so please do. The littl
e girl's gone missing, and the grandma's a friend of mine, thought I'd see what I can dig up. I might call again if I need more info, is that okay? I don't wanna get you in trouble…”
“What trouble?” Dan asked. “I can talk to my old partner all I want to, and anyone don't like it can kiss my patootie!”
Sam laughed. “Okay, thanks man, you know I appreciate it! Later!”
He hung up the phone and turned to Mrs. Ward. “Okay, that was my old partner, and drugs is where we worked together. He knows Allen, and he'll get me some info on him. Meanwhile, can you get me a picture of Cassie, one I can hold onto?”
Mrs. Ward reached into a pocket of her jeans and took out a photo that she handed to him. “This is her,” she said. “This was only taken a couple of weeks ago.”
Sam took it, and saw a pretty little girl who was just at the stage of turning into a young adult. Cassie had honey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and the bare beginnings of a figure that would probably be driving boys crazy within a year. He tapped the picture on his hand and smiled at Mrs. Ward.
“Give me a day or so, and let me see if I can find anything. What's your number?” She gave it to him, and he put it into his phone to save it.
When she'd gone, Sam sat there for a long moment and thought about what he'd just agreed to do. With Dan's help, it was possible he could actually find out something about the child, but there were no guarantees. What if the worst-case scenario was true, and the child really was dead? There was no way to predict anything in police work, but he'd said he would try, so try he would.
His phone rang again a few minutes later, and he answered it instantly.
“Yeah?” he growled.
“Sam, it's Dan. I ran this guy through everything we got up here, and I may have something for you, if you can figure out how to use it. Remember I used to gripe all the time that some of these drug dealers were using Facebook? Well, there's a whole new website out there, and on the surface it's nothing, but there's a back end to it that seems to be how these guys are making their deals without leaving a trace. They're moving money in so many different ways that it's mind-boggling, too, and never leaving us anything to grab onto. We get little bits and pieces, but never any real info we can use to go after any of 'em, or shut 'em down.”
“Wow,” Sam said. “Sounds rough, but what's that got to do with my guy?”
“Well, it's a big 'if,' but if you can find a way into that network, you might find out what he's up to. From everything I can find, he's one of their people, working through this online network to sell his dope. Then all he does is drop it off, and he's done. The beauty of it is that even if we catch him, it's never with enough to make a difference; he's only got a small amount, and we can't even make a charge of 'possession with intent to deliver' stick. He never collects any money, so we can't get him for delivery of a controlled substance for sale, either. It's a nightmare.”
Sam thought about it for a moment. “What's the website?” Dan gave him the name, drugspot dot org, and he memorized it so he could look it up later. “Thanks, Buddy, I owe you one. Keep your ears open on the little girl, too, okay? Cassie Rice is her name. Anything you hear, I wanna hear.”
“You got it. You goin' into the private eye biz?” Dan asked.
Sam laughed. “No,” he said, and then thought about it. “Well—maybe.”
“Could be a good thing,” Dan said. “Just remember that if you go into it as a pro, then that makes me your consultant, and I get a fee! Deal?”
Sam laughed out loud. “You got it, Bud! Talk to you later!”
Sam was decent with a computer, and had a nice one all set up in his dining room, but he wasn't a hacker. He played around on the dealers' website for a couple of hours, but all he saw was a bunch of pages about prescription drugs, how they work, what their side effects were, and things along those lines. He began to think that maybe he should try to find someone who could do what he and law enforcement couldn't: get into the back door of this site, even if it wasn't quite legally.
He went to craigslist and posted an ad in Computer Gigs:
Wanted: Someone who can wear a Dragon Tattoo. If you know what that means, answer by email asap!
The reference was to the book The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, of course, which was about a girl who was a computer hacker. Sam had heard an arrestee use that term once, about someone who had hacked into police computer networks: “that dude could wear a dragon tattoo!” Now, Sam needed someone who could fit that description.
He waited about three hours, but there was no response. It was getting close to dinnertime, and since he'd forgotten to set anything out, Sam thought he'd just go out to eat. Taco Bell tickled his fancy now and then, and the weather was nice, so he climbed onto the Shadow and road off to the nearest one, out near the Mall. He liked the outdoor tables there, and often went through the drive-through to place his order, then rode around and parked so he could eat at one of them. That's what he did that day.
He'd gotten his usual—five regular tacos and a coke—and sat down at his favorite table, when his phone chirped to tell him he had a text message. He checked it automatically, and then read it again, his food all but forgotten.
Why does an ex-cop on medical retirement want a hacker? ~Indie
Sam thought fast. Whoever this was had managed to get through the craigslist email redirect and find out his real name, then dug into his past and learned an awful lot in a short time. This was either a trap of some kind, or exactly the person he needed. He typed:
Working on a missing child case privately. Need some mad skills to help learn her fate.
He hit the send button, and then remembered the tacos. He ate while waiting to see if there would be another reply.
The phone chirped again, and he snatched it off the table.
We can talk. Are those tacos good? Buy me some? ~Indie
He was still squinting at the phone when the chair opposite was pulled out and someone sat down. He looked up and saw a short, pretty girl in her early twenties smiling back at him, phone in hand and a thick laptop case slung over her shoulder. She was around five feet tall, and her hair was multi-colored, dark underneath, but blonde on top. Combined with her big brown eyes, it was a strikingly pretty look, and when he let himself think it over, he changed that opinion from pretty to beautiful.
“I'm Indie,” she said.
Sam looked at her for a long moment, then glanced down at his phone and back to her face. “I gather you're hungry?”
“Starving. I hope you don't mind I asked, but I was watching you eat and it got to me. I'd get my own, but I'm sorta broke at the moment.”
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills, chose a twenty and handed it to her. “Here. You've earned that just by showing up here. Go get your food and then tell me how you did that.”
Indie smiled and set her bag down next to Sam's chair, then hurried inside to order. She was back in four minutes, and sat down across from him again as he finished eating his last taco. She had four of her own and two burritos, with a large coke to wash it all down, and began eating furiously.
“I saw your ad, and sent a fake email to it with no data, but a packet that sent me a reply and then deleted the reply from your email client. That gave me your personal email address, so then I could Google you and get your name, which let me go digging for more info. I found where you got shot and lost your job as a cop, and that got me interested, so I looked deeper. I found your address and went and was gonna park down the road to watch you for a little bit, but then I saw you ride out, so I followed. When you started eating, I was hooked. So, what do you need a hacker for?”
Sam studied her for a moment. “Not so fast. If you’re that good, why are you broke? I thought hackers were always loaded with money.”
“Black hats are the ones who go after money. They're crooks. I'm not one of those. I'm more a gray hat; I'll do what I've gotta do to get done what I gotta get done, but I don't steal and I don't do this
stuff for personal gain.”
“Hmph,” Sam said. “How do you make a living, then?”
She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I get a job, like everyone else. Just happens I haven't been able to find one lately. Ran outta money last night, and I'll be outta gas soon. Is this a paying gig? If it is, and you’re really out to help a kid, then I'm in.”
Sam smiled. “It's a paying gig, and I'm really looking for a missing kid. Where do you live?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Depends. Lost my apartment a couple months ago, so I've been doing the shelters. I'm supposed to go back to St. Mary's tonight. If I have to, if you need me close by or something, I can sleep in my car.” She pointed to an older Ford Taurus in the parking lot.
Sam sat there and thought for a moment. “What's your name?” he asked.
She looked at him oddly again. “Indie, I told you. That's my real name, or sort of; it's Indiana, Indiana Perkins. My mom named me after Indiana Jones, cause she said it shoulda been a girl's name. Mom was stoned a lot, when I was growing up.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Sam pulled out his phone and called Dan Jacobs again. “Dan, it's Sam again.”
“No kidding,” Dan said. “I'd never recognize your number!”
“Smart ass. You still at work?”
“When am I not? What do you need, Bud?”
“Tell me what you can find on a girl, Indiana Perkins, early twenties, five foot nothin', blonde and brown.”
“Gimme five,” Dan said, and the line went silent.
Indie was smiling at him. “Holy Geez, you're checking me out? You do realize that you won't find anything I don't want you to find, right?”
Sam smiled back. “So tell me what we're gonna find,” he said.
She shrugged again. “I went to MIT for IT, got a Bachelor's Degree, and been looking for a decent job for a year, now. No arrests ever, never been in any kind of trouble, and don't ever wanna be. That enough, or you want my shoe size?”
Sam grinned. “That'll do. Let's see if my partner can match it. You get enough to eat?”
